Ours to Keep

MFM Why-Choose Romance
by Isla Wilde

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Pairing: MFM (Why-Choose Triad)
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Best Friends to Lovers, Why Choose, MFM Ménage, Hurt/Comfort, Forced Proximity, Praise Kink, Possessive Hero, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Triad Romance

Brooke has always had a problem: her two best friends are exactly her type. One brutal breakup, one drunken truth-or-dare, and “we’ll take care of you tonight” turns into a full-time arrangement where both men share her — and nobody wants to give her up.

Brooke Harlow just found her boyfriend cheating. She’s done being told she’s “too emotional” and “not exciting enough.” When her two best friends — steady, protective Reid and charming, chaotic Marcus — show up to pick up the pieces, they make an offer that changes everything: We’ll take care of you tonight.

One night of explicit, mind-blowing comfort turns into two. Then three. Then an arrangement where both men share her bed, her mornings, and her body with an intensity that should scare her — but only makes her want more.

Reid is the one who takes control. Marcus is the one who makes her laugh. Together, they’re the two halves of everything Brooke never knew she needed. But what started as “just helping you heal” is turning into something none of them can name — and when the world outside their bubble forces the question, Brooke has to decide: choose one, or demand them both.

She chooses both. They choose her. And the three of them build something worth keeping.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Two best friends sharing one woman — and loving every second
✅ Explicit MFM scenes that are filthy AND emotionally devastating
✅ “We’ll take care of you” energy that escalates into full possession
✅ Jealousy, possessiveness, and praise kink from BOTH men
✅ A heroine who stops apologizing for wanting too much
✅ Poly triad HEA — no choosing, no sharing angst, just THEIRS
✅ 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, frequent, and emotional

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains extremely explicit sexual content (graphic MFM group scenes throughout), strong language, infidelity (not between main characters), emotional manipulation by an ex-partner, and possessive/jealous behavior. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

Not sure yet? Read the full first chapter right here.

Chapter One: The Worst Tuesday

The thing about finding your boyfriend of three years balls-deep in someone else is that it ruins Tuesdays forever.

I wasn’t supposed to come home early. That was the part that kept replaying in my head as I sat in the parking lot of The Rusty Nail, staring at my phone through blurry eyes and trying to remember how breathing worked. I wasn’t supposed to come home early. The Whitmore wedding rehearsal dinner got cancelled because the groom had a panic attack and locked himself in a bathroom at the Hyatt, which meant I was suddenly free at seven p.m. on a Tuesday with a bottle of the couple’s leftover champagne and a dangerous amount of optimism.

I’d thought: I’ll surprise Caleb. We’ll drink this on the couch. Maybe I’ll wear the thing he likes.

The thing he likes turned out to be unnecessary. He was already having a great time without it.

Her name was Maddie. Or Mandy. Or something with an M that I’d never be able to hear again without my stomach turning. She was blonde and bendy and she made a sound when she saw me in the doorway that I would describe as theatrical.

Caleb’s contribution to the moment was: “Brooke, this isn’t—”

I didn’t wait for the rest. I already knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t what it looked like. It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t about me.

Except it was always about me, wasn’t it? Everything Caleb had spent three years telling me — that I was too emotional, too clingy, too much and somehow also not enough — it was all right there in the way he couldn’t even look guilty. He just looked annoyed. Like I’d interrupted something.

Like I was the problem.

I took the champagne with me. That was my one act of defiance. He could have Maddie-or-Mandy and the apartment and the life I’d been building around a man who apparently found me interchangeable, but the champagne was mine.

I made it to my car before the crying started.

I called Marcus first. I always called Marcus first.

He picked up on the second ring, which meant he was either between freelance projects or procrastinating on one. With Marcus, there wasn’t much difference.

“Brookie,” he said, and the warmth in his voice nearly undid me. “What’s up?”

“Caleb’s cheating on me.” I said it flat, factual, like I was reporting the weather. Partly cloudy with a chance of total emotional devastation.

Silence. Then: “Where are you?”

“Rusty Nail parking lot.”

“Stay there. I’m calling Reid. We’re coming.”

He hung up before I could tell him not to. Before I could say it’s fine or I’m fine or any of the other lies I’d been rehearsing since the bedroom doorway. Marcus never gave me the chance to be fine when I clearly wasn’t. It was one of the best and most infuriating things about him.

The champagne was warm. I drank some anyway.

Fourteen minutes later — I counted — Reid’s truck pulled into the lot. The headlights swept across my windshield and I saw both of them through the glare: Reid driving, jaw set, hands tight on the wheel. Marcus in the passenger seat, already unbuckling before the truck stopped.

Marcus reached my car first. He opened the driver’s door, took one look at my face, and said, “Okay. Get out. You’re not sitting in this parking lot alone.”

“I have champagne.”

“You have warm champagne and mascara on your chin. Come on.”

I let him pull me out of the car. He smelled like turpentine and dryer sheets — his studio smell, the one that meant he’d been working and then thrown on the first clean shirt he could find. His arms came around me and I pressed my face into his chest and tried very hard not to fall apart.

Reid appeared beside us. He didn’t say anything. He just put his hand on the back of my neck — warm, heavy, steady — and stood there like a wall between me and the rest of the world.

“What did he say?” Reid asked after a minute.

“The usual. This isn’t what it looks like.” I laughed, and it came out broken. “It looked pretty clear to me.”

Reid’s hand tightened on my neck. Not painfully. Protectively. “I’m going to kill him.”

“You’re not going to kill him,” Marcus said, but his voice had an edge I rarely heard. Playful, messy, chaotic Marcus had a line, and Caleb had just crossed it. “We’re going to take Brooke back to my place, and we’re going to feed her, and tomorrow we’ll figure out logistics.”

“I can go to my—” I started.

“His apartment,” Reid corrected. “Not yours anymore. You’re staying with Marcus.”

I looked up at him. Reid Callahan: six-one, built like the personal trainer he was, sandy blond hair and blue eyes and a jawline that looked like it had been engineered for the express purpose of making me feel safe. He’d been my best friend since junior year of high school, when he’d found me crying in the gym storage room over a college rejection letter and wordlessly handed me a protein bar. That was Reid. No speeches. Just showed up and handled things.

“Okay,” I said, because arguing with Reid when he was in protective mode was like arguing with weather.

Marcus’s loft was a twenty-minute drive from the Rusty Nail, and by the time we got there, the champagne had hit my empty stomach and the adrenaline crash had hit everything else. I sat on Marcus’s couch — a massive, ugly, insanely comfortable sectional he’d rescued from an estate sale and re-covered in gray velvet — and accepted the blanket Reid draped over my shoulders and the leftover pad thai Marcus heated up and the combined weight of two men who loved me settling onto either side of me like bookends.

“He said I wasn’t exciting,” I said into the container of pad thai. “That’s what he said last month when we fought. That I was too emotional and not exciting enough. Which — how is that even the same complaint? If I’m too emotional, shouldn’t that be exciting?”

“He’s an idiot,” Marcus said. He was sitting close enough that his thigh pressed against mine, and his hand rested on my knee — casual, comfortable, the way we’d always touched each other. We were a tactile trio. Always had been.

“He’s worse than an idiot,” Reid said from my other side. He’d taken off his shoes and his feet were up on the coffee table, which Marcus usually gave him shit about, but tonight Marcus said nothing. “He’s a guy who had the best woman he was ever going to get and was too stupid to know it.”

The words hit me somewhere soft and unprotected.

“You don’t have to say that.” I set down the pad thai. My appetite was gone, replaced by something heavier. “I know I’m — I know I can be a lot. Caleb always said—”

“Caleb,” Reid said, and the disgust in his voice was so complete it was almost funny, “doesn’t get to define you. He lost that privilege the second he put his dick somewhere it didn’t belong.”

Marcus snorted. I felt it shake through the couch. Even I cracked a smile, watery and reluctant.

“What I mean,” Reid continued, and now his voice was lower, more careful, “is that there’s nothing wrong with you, Brooke. You’re not too much. You’re not too emotional. You’re—” He stopped. Swallowed. Reid was not a man who made speeches, and this was clearly costing him something. “You’re exactly right.”

The room got very quiet.

Marcus’s hand tightened on my knee. Reid’s shoulder pressed harder against mine. And something shifted — something I’d been ignoring for years, something I’d shoved into the back closet of my mind and piled furniture against — cracked open an inch.

I looked at Marcus. His green eyes were soft, worried, and underneath the worry was something else. Something I’d been pretending not to see since we were nineteen.

I looked at Reid. His blue eyes were steady, fierce, and underneath the fierceness was the same thing. The exact same thing.

Oh, I thought. Oh no.

“I should sleep,” I said, too quickly. “I’m drunk and sad and I need to not be a person for eight hours.”

Marcus stood immediately. “Take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“Marcus, no—”

“Brooke.” He said my name the way he always did — like it was his favorite word in the English language. “Take the bed. Please.”

Reid was already moving, pulling the extra blanket from the hall closet, adjusting the thermostat because he knew I slept cold. They orbited me like twin satellites, these men, and tonight — raw and heartbroken and three glasses of warm champagne deep — I let them.

Marcus’s bed smelled like him. Laundry detergent and something faintly woodsy, like the pencil shavings that were permanently embedded in his sheets. I curled into the center of it, pulled the blanket to my chin, and listened to the murmur of their voices from the other room.

I couldn’t make out words. Just tone. Reid’s low rumble. Marcus’s quicker cadence. They were talking about me — I knew they were — and the fact that these two men were out there, awake, worried, wanting me to be okay, made me feel safer than I had in three years of sharing a bed with a man who found me interchangeable.

My phone buzzed. Caleb: Can we talk?

I turned the phone face-down.

Something was different tonight. I could feel it in the way they’d looked at me — both of them, at the same time, with that specific heat that I’d been pretending was just friendship for a decade. I could feel it in the way Reid’s hand had felt on my neck. In the way Marcus’s thigh had pressed against mine. In the way neither of them had let go.

It’s just because you’re hurt, I told myself. You’re projecting. You’re lonely and sad and you’re turning your best friends into something they’re not.

But Reid had said you’re exactly right. And Marcus had said her name like it was his favorite word.

And I had noticed.

I pressed my face into Marcus’s pillow and tried to think about anything else.

I thought about Reid’s hands on my shoulders.

I thought about Marcus’s laugh.

I thought about the way they both looked at me when they thought I wasn’t watching.

I did not sleep for a very long time.

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Ours — Move-In Night — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon

Brooke, Reid, and Marcus move into their first apartment together. The second the last box hits the floor, they christen every room — the couch, the kitchen counter, the shower, and the bed. Possessive, tender, filthy, and joyful. Their hottest night yet.

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